


an ocean of noise

by volefriend



Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: Other, content warnings in description, major spoilers for pzn 28
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:28:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25622155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/volefriend/pseuds/volefriend
Summary: Broun swims, and barters.(Major spoilers for PZN 28.)
Relationships: Kal'mera Broun & Gur Sevraq, Kal'mera Broun/Valence, Valence/Gur Sevraq
Comments: 16
Kudos: 39





	an ocean of noise

**Author's Note:**

> **Big spoilers for PZN 28,** just the biggest you can imagine, starting in the next sentence of this description. 
> 
> **Content warnings:** References to major character death (or likely death), accidental/unintentional self-injury, surgery-adjacent stuff (on a robot), gun use, some drowning imagery. 
> 
> Thinking about the worries Gur had when the Thing happened made me very sad. More superficially, I had potential OT3 thoughts that had to go somewhere. Apologies for the Clem dragging; it came with the cast of this one. Twitter is @volefriend for PZN tweets if you can put up with all the visual novel tweets surrounding them.

A.O., sharp-eyed, saw the metal first, but it’s Broun who’s decided to hop off the lowest deck of Fort Icebreaker to fish it out of the water, lapping waves be damned. It has been a week and it is as if the storm has circled back. But for now it is a couple hours off; the clouds darken like ink on a page run in slow-motion, and the wind might still be called a breeze. 

A.O. has never been one to be anxious, but he is now, it seems. “Are you sure it isn’t going to get blown away? We could send a drone, or-” 

“No time,” Broun responds. All of this, they think, is ill-advised, induced by secondhand anxiety, and another Broun, the one they usually pretend to be, is screaming somewhere that A.O. is right. Yet they still twine the line of cable around their half-dressed waist, looking over to Thisbe, who is gripping the other end. “I literally won swimming at the Passage, A.O. You were _there._ I swam further for _that_.” 

“I know, I get it- but right now? We’re about to get drowned again.” 

A.O. looked enough like his mother, pirating and piloting, that no one needed to tell Broun of his parentage before they could guess it, even if they were slow on the uptake. Right now, though, he looks nothing like her. He has not looked much like her in the week since the last of these summer storms, because Broun has never once seen K.O. Rooke try to hide a bout of lasting, gnawing, nervous energy.

That’s everyone on Fort Icebreaker right now, though. That’s why, Broun thinks, they’re doing this shit. Enough of the rumors and tall tales, and enough of sending out the boats to fish for bodies. 

A.O. suppresses a sigh and reaches for the cable, as if to support it. Before he can Thisbe sweeps out an arm to block him; the movement is sharp and yet lacking in violence. “A.O. Rooke, you will burn your hands on it once it moves,” she says, and A.O.’s scoff in response has no energy to it. 

“I’ll be fine,” Broun calls out, as they step toward the water, and they feel the need to paper over their anxiety enough that as they dive into the waves they keep a curse to themself. 

It is not the water of the Summer Passage. For a moment it does not feel like the water of _summer_ and a ripple of something awful rushes through Broun, as if they are being targeted, aimed at with a loaded gun. Then they come up to breathe; once they hit the surface they feel like a fool. They are at the scrap of metal within a couple minutes, reaching out to grab it.

Their hand, for a moment, takes on another pulse _._

The water feels too cold. Yet they turn and move back. For a moment, despite all evidence that it is still safe for a swimmer of their skill, they think of calling to Thisbe for further help. But they swallow the fear and stay silent as they climb back up onto the platform, wiping water out of their eyes, feeling as if it all went too fast. 

Only then can they properly study the scrap, and- yes. It looks about the size that would fit on someone’s chest. It looks as if it was purposefully pried off, even, judging by the knife marks on the side. It is just the right color, a silver that shines in the last vestiges of sunlight. 

But it’s not as if Broun ever saw Gur Sevraq without their robes. 

So what can they say? They’ve always been inclined to try to placate people. 

“I mean- it’s metal, it could be anything. See?” They say, looking up at A.O.

But the nervousness is gone from his face. There is a type of clarity there that Broun has never seen in anyone, and he speaks with both the conviction he has when he brags about doing tricks in the Panther and with complete access to something Broun has never felt. 

“No,” he says, “That’s theirs. I can feel Future on it from here.” 

-

The day before Gur Sevraq vanished, Valence bought him fabrics. Broun knows this because they had the second opinion. 

“They’ll like it, right? Someone in town was selling it, and- I thought it fit them,” Valence said, holding it up, sounding more confident than Broun truly thought they were.

And Broun wasn’t sure. It’s not like they knew Gur terribly well, but they’d seen plenty of him since they started to be pulled into every infrastructure project on the Fort, and Gur tended to be in brighter colors than the muted pink of the silk Valence had. Maybe they’d wear that pattern on it- a dark blue, alternating lines and circles. The pink just didn’t feel right, though. 

“I mean-” 

“It’s wrong, isn’t it,” Valence responded, ears falling.

“No! No, I just- I don’t know what he likes or anything.” 

Valence looked unconvinced, and it hurt more than it should. Every little hesitant movement did, now that they were actually spending time together again. At some point, Broun thought, some little comment might get under Valence’s transparent coating and they’d ask _are you mad at me,_ and Broun would have to pretend they hadn’t spent weeks in festering bitterness, weeks hating them for a broken promise that had turned out not to be broken at all. They constantly felt as if they were on the verge of being found out. 

They’re just asking you about fucking cloth _,_ Broun thought to themself. 

“Look, it’s- it’s cute. They’ll like it,” they continued, trying to sound a little more certain this time.

Valence nodded, setting the fabric back down on Broun’s work desk, delicately. Maybe the better thought would have been ‘why are they so worried about this cloth’ _,_ because they looked like they were fighting actual concern.

“I just thought it would be nice. They...take care of a lot,” Valence said, staring down at it. “I don’t even know where he would put this if he’s not going to wear it, so I just thought...”

“Valence,” Broun said, “We just captured an entire palace.” 

Valence smiled, and thank god, because it meant Broun could lose some of the tension in their shoulders. “Right. I don’t know what I’m saying. Thanks, Broun.” 

Broun watched them pick it up, begin to fold it gingerly. Broun had known Valence to occasionally have some nerves, to admit to anxiety- but not to often show it in the ways they were showing it then, so blatantly, over something so small. 

They teased the idea of asking over in their head, and found they couldn’t help themself. “Did...something happen?” 

“What?” 

“Like- is this an apology gift or something?” Ah, no, it sounded wrong the moment it came out of their mouth. “Sorry, it’s just-” 

“Maybe. A little,” Valence responded.

“Wait, really?” 

Valence looked away, seeming to struggle not to grip the fabric too tightly. It took them a moment, searching for words. “Do you remember when I was running, when I said I didn’t think I really understood them anymore?” 

By that point Broun had pushed the election away in their mind, if only because of where it led. But they could find the memory, once they searched for a moment. “Yeah?” 

“Things never got...any _worse_ than that. We still talked. But we never really talked about _that,_ ” Valence said, carefully. “They never stopped including me when they thought it was important. And now we’re working on something even bigger together and I thought I’d...I thought it’d be good to let them know. That I didn’t stay angry. Even if I still don’t know if I agree with everything he’s done.” 

By that point Valence was holding the fabric in both hands, almost protective, affectionate. The word _cute_ appeared in Broun’s mind before they shut it down, preemptively. 

“Well...look,” they responded, after weighing their words yet again. “I think you’ve gotten pretty good at making things even.” 

Valence’s ears shot up. 

“I try,” they said, sounding just a little weary. 

Hearing that tone in their voice made Broun want to reach out, to make that reassurance sure, but they stopped themself again. “Look, you’ll be fine,” they said instead. “Seriously, you shouldn’t be worried about it.” 

“I know. That doesn’t _stop_ me from worrying, though,” Valence looked away, another thing on their mind. “And something happened- don’t tell anybody. But I think something made them _really_ upset. I just wish I could do more.” 

Broun sucked in one of their cheeks, thinking. They tried not to get into people’s business. But if this was _Valence’s_ business now- well. That tended to become theirs, too. “Do you know what?” 

Valence frowned. “I’m pretty sure I do. But...you don’t usually care about the, uh, ‘God stuff.’” 

Ah. They _didn’t._ But there was a part of them, looking at Valence’s face, that thought that maybe they occasionally _should._

“I don’t know if I’ll... _get it,_ but-”

“No, it’s okay,” Valence said. “It’s- what’s bugging Gur, it _might_ be important for everyone else, depending on how things go. But you’ll know if it is.”

Broun leaned back against their work desk, raising an eyebrow. “Sounds, uh. Ominous?” 

“It is,” Valence replied, then shook their head a little, as if to brush off the seriousness in their tone. “I should go. You have a lot of work, right?” 

A pang of something came to Broun’s chest, again, and this one they weren’t even sure of the source of. “Always do,” they said.

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” Valence responded, turning to the door. But they lingered, looking back, for a moment, holding the fabric to their chest. A little bit of reluctance in the eyes Broun had made. 

Ah, _that_ was the feeling Broun had, buried deep down. A longing to keep them. 

“Valence,” Broun said, “they really will like it.” 

There was trepidation there; it was close to a lie. But Valence smiled. If they were choosing to believe it, Broun thought, I can live with that. I don’t need the idea of them crushed. 

-

Even months later Fort Icebreaker moves at a pace Broun sometimes finds difficult to comprehend. Within about five minutes of their return from the water a small group congregates; ten minutes after it is double the size. It takes twenty-five for Apparatus Aperitif to appear, and for the drone of conversation that has already developed to cease at their presence. 

It occurs to Broun, then, that Apparatus and Gur’s friendship is somewhat known, but their long history is not; it was a tangential fact Valence had shared once, not relevant until now. But Apparatus’ silence alone is enough to turn heads. Something sinks in Broun’s chest as they approach, and a few attempts at words come out as stammers as Apparatus takes the metal from their hand and studies it, expression impenetrable. 

“Well,” they say, after a long moment. “Thank you, Broun.” 

Then they turn to leave. 

Once they are out of sight the crowd begins to disperse, as if the wind was taken out of their sails. Part of a corpse, Broun thinks; that could have been a part of a corpse. 

“This is fucked,” Milli says, dumping a coat over Broun’s still half-dressed shoulders. When did Milli get here? Broun hadn’t even noticed. “ _Fucked,”_ she emphasizes, reaching out to put a hand on A.O.’s shoulder. He doesn’t say anything; this discovery has not shaken his strange mood, it seems.

“There’s...no way that could be anything else?,” Broun says, knowing they’re bullshitting. 

“It is not likely,” Thisbe responds. 

“So what, Clementine gets mad at him on the deck and...” Milli waves a hand around, like trying to find something invisible. The fact that Clementine and Gur had been on the verge of an argument when last seen is common knowledge, but before this it had been the only knowledge they’d had. “Clementine was the worst, but she was _Clementine_ and they were _sort of_ an elect _._ ” 

“Did she...carry a knife?” Broun asks, still aware of the feeling of the metal in their hand.

“What?I mean, I don’t know, maybe?” 

“She could have,” A.O. says, suddenly. He looks up at Milli. “I mean- hear me out. The _one time_ I thought Clementine was okay was when we picked upGur on the Path. She practically got herself killed going out there. For a second it seemed like maybe she’d be more than another fucking noble, that she’d be willing to actually fight _with_ us. And then she _wasn’t,_ but- she did it that time because she wanted it, right? Like _actually, really_ wanted it.” He takes a breath, as if he’s suddenly gained awareness that he’s said more than intended. “If she wanted...to do whatever the hell we’re saying she did. Maybe she _could,_ if she wanted it enough _._ ”

They all go silent. Broun doesn’t know enough of Clementine to be certain of anything, really, and they’re embarrassed how much it must show. Milli looks distant, torn as to whether to even think about her former jailer that deeply at all. 

“Clementine Kesh barely understood how to pick up a farming hoe. I am not sure she could properly commit a murder and then vanish,” Thisbe says. 

Milli grins, and then A.O. does, and they both laugh, just long enough for it to be genuine. It is also just short enough to make it clear the feeling is fleeting. Broun attempts to let this give them some relief, looks up at Thisbe, forces a smile. Thisbe blinks slowly. 

“Alright. We needed that,” Milli says, but before she’s done speaking some of the feeling has left her voice. She wraps an arm around A.O.’s shoulder anyway, and starts walking them toward the door. “And we need to get out of here before we get locked out by the _next_ storm.”

Broun pulls the coat closer, prepares for the blast of cool air about to hit them as they go inside. For a moment they feel as if under a mild delirium, trying to get their thoughts in order, trying to forget the feeling of the metal’s pulse in their arm. A divine’s touch, maybe, if A.O. wasn’t fucking around. Reaching out and gasping for breath. 

“Hey Broun?” Milli asks, turning her head to look back at them. “Valence and Gur were...buddies, right? Did they say anything? About Gur acting weird or whatever?” 

Broun wavers, mentally, tosses options around. There is plenty they could say here and plenty they decide not to. “Not...really.” 

Milli purses her lips in a way Broun knows means disappointment, but it doesn’t last. “Right. Not like the world is gonna just give us any _real answers_ right now.” She shifts as she walks; A.O. looks up, and Broun watches him contemplate hugging Milli back, then decide to. 

Broun has always called themself trustworthy, in the business sense; they have liked to think of themself as that way in every situation and knew it wasn’t really true. But doing this, hiding this from Milli and A.O., feels like a contradiction. 

They’d promised Gur they wouldn’t tell anybody about the last time they’d seen them, after all. But does it matter if he’s probably dead?

-

Gur Sevraq was in Broun’s workroom the night before they vanished from Fort Icebreaker. 

It is _Broun’s_ workroom in the informal sense- in the sense that Broun uses it so much they sleep on a cot there, and in the sense that it’s so filled with Broun’s things by now that there’s no point in anyone else using it. But it is completely believable that a person passing by could assume what is there is for public use, if they were not the type to come to this wing often or participate in the circle of planners and mech-fixers built up within the Fort. 

This did not stop Broun, returning there and finding Gur taking a set of pliers off the wall, from blurting out “ _uh,_ hello?” in perhaps too short of a tone. 

Gur did not quite startle but paused, in motion, thin arm mid-air for a second too long. “Broun. I didn’t- this is your room, isn’t it.” 

“I guess? Basically. But-” 

“My apologies. I’ll go,” Gur responded, pulling their arm back under their robes. He was particularly wrapped up, body barely visible beyond his face.

Broun saw Gur enough, at this point, to know them, but it was never the two of them alone. It was at group meetings, usually, the ones Gur was quite fond of calling at this point. Gur had always seemed poised, thoughtful in an impossible way, but there was something different about seeing him alone, off-kilter.

“Well- what were you looking for?” Broun said. “You can borrow the pliers if you need them, it’s not like I don’t have a bunch of those.” 

“I couldn’t. Honestly I ought to have my own pair,” Gur mumbled, quickly, moving forward a bit to leave. 

It was the sort of situation Broun would have dismissed even a few months before. At this point, though, it felt wrong not to ask. “It’s...not something I can help with?” 

Gur made a movement Broun could only compare to the loosening of one’s shoulders, though their tone remained short. “I am sure you have more than enough on your plate. You do so much here. It’s barely anything.” 

“I’m not doing anything right now, if it’s so small.” 

Gur stood still, in thought, for what Broun nearly began to feel was far too long. It was long enough, even, that Broun started to study them as if there was something obvious they were missing. 

No pink fabric, they realized. The realization, to their surprise, came with a mild sting. 

It was at that point that Gur, somewhat reluctant, reached another arm out of his robes. 

The damage was obvious. Gur’s arms were points; refined lines. And the end of that one was bent at a curve. 

“Oh. Shit,” Broun mumbled, approaching cautiously, curiously. 

They held a hand out on impulse and then stopped, just in time for Gur to speak. “ _Careful,_ it’s- they’re sharp,” he said, stumbling briefly. “And it is not as bad as you seem to think it is.” 

“Are...you _sure?_ ” 

Gur’s eyes closed contemplatively, and the expression was normal enough on them that Broun took the moment to reach out, study the bend more closely. 

“Think of it like...a mild twist of your ankle,” he said. “It needs to be healed, but far from serious. A minor accident.” 

They’re probably right, Broun thought, but it didn’t change how strange it looked, how odd it felt in their hands. They had to hold it lightly, aware that Gur was right- the lower end of the arm was genuinely _sharpened._ Weaponlike. 

Broun reached back, picked up the pliers. “So would it just take these, or-” 

“If you truly think you need to handle this,” Gur said, a little bit of tension still simmering in their tone, “there is a small screw on the underside, a bit lower down. Loosening it will make it easier.” 

Broun turned to grab a screwdriver, and then moved to find the screw. It was all _technically_ simple, they supposed, as Gur said- but it felt strange, the spontaneity of this, Gur’s shyness to reveal it. 

“How were you going to do this?”, Broun asked, loosening the screw slowly, staring at Gur’s clear lack of fingers. They knew this didn’t hurt in the traditional sense, but it was close enough to move at a careful pace. 

Gur made a soft noise, a sort of half-laugh. “You find ways.” 

“Right,” Broun responded, aware they likely sounded entirely unsure.

There was a short moment of silence as Broun worked, maybe not as quickly as they could. For reasons of care, partially; contemplating whether they needed different pliers, trying not to pull too sharply at the bend. It was that and the fact that, god, Gur’s arms _were_ sharp. Almost enviable in their craft, to Broun’s eye, and clearly taken care of. Like a set of knives always in reach. 

Why would a _monk_ need that?

“There is something I should have asked you before, while I have you,” Gur said, then. “About Asepsis.” 

“What?”, Broun asked, surprised by the question, struggling not to lose focus on the work. “Um, what about it? I’ve just got scraps of it.” They jerked a thumb towards the corner of the room, where parts of drones molded in the divine’s image sat piled on a table. 

“Does it ever speak to you?” 

Ah, Broun thought; _God stuff._ Of a sort.

They wrestled, mentally, against any derision in their tone. “It’s, uh...pretty much dead, isn’t it? Why would it?” 

“A divine cannot truly die. And the story I had _heard_ was that Asepsis rejected its previous Elect with...a certain amount of violence.” Gur’s gaze, focused on the drones, was pensive. “You should be careful.” 

“Well,” Broun responded, “it’s not like I’m its actual Elect or anything. I just stole what was left of it.” 

Gur laughed, actually genuine, a little bit of the shake of it going down his arm. 

“Broun, trust me. That would not prevent a divine from considering you as such. Or as _close enough,_ ” they said, almost fond. “I know that better than most.” 

Broun let go of their arm, turning away to grab a smaller set of tools; they’d moved down the arm as it got thinner, and only had the very end to go. 

“I guess I just- I’ve told Valence before. I don’t really know a ton about it.” _Care about it_ was the wording they had to avoid. “Anything about divines, or Asterism, or Valence’s God. Your God.” 

“Did you _want_ to know about it?”, Gur asked. 

Broun shrugged. “It had never...felt like it would ever be important to me. Like it would help me at all.” 

Broun turned back, and in that moment swore Gur Sevraq had changed. They were a little- taller? 

No, that couldn’t be right.

“I...did not lie to you, when I said this was an accident,” he stated, looking down at his half-fixed arm. “I was writing tomorrow’s sermon and became distracted. I have been distracted from _everything._ Even the sermon is a distraction, in some ways.” They paused, bore their gaze into Broun’s eyes. “Broun. You have heard of the jungle that has sprung up here, in Kesh’s territory. Yes?” 

Broun felt the early signs of the next day’s storm in that moment, Fort Icebreaker developing a soft sway. “Yeah. I think so. The one they’re all saying is some sort of blessing for Kesh?” 

“It is _not_ a blessing for _them._ It is a warning. For _us,”_ Gur said, words short and pointed, and in Broun’s mind’s eye the words were just like their arms, shaped like they could draw blood, bastions of a lingering bitterness.

“What do you mean?”

“It is a warning that we would not have even gotten if I had _prioritized_ properly, and now it is here and it might be _too late_. Too late for them and _us_ and this _entire moon_.”

A feeling came to Broun in that moment that Gur Sevraq was not entirely talking to just them. But even partially talking to them was talking to them, and there was a lump in Broun’s throat, suddenly, that they could not find the source of. 

How did Valence say they felt, before Fort Icebreaker and before Millenium Break, when they said God was coming? _Terrified._ Broun was not sure that had ever changed. 

The proper thing to do would be to convey that. Instead Broun’s words came out with a stammer. “From- from God, you mean. A warning from God. That we’re all going to die, or...or something like that?” 

The lights in Gur Sevraq’s eyes twitched.

It happened so quickly Broun’s first instinct was that they were hurt. That maybe Broun had pulled or tapped something wrong on their arm, triggered something in their chest. “Gur?” 

And then Gur’s eyes slowly widened. A part of Broun had not really been sure he had grown taller, but in that moment he seemed to shrink smaller than he had been when he walked into the room. Limbs under the cloak pulled closer, fabric falling back over spindly shoulders.

“Yes. God. I would not say they would... _kill us all,_ but- we have,” Gur said, quiet and flat, “so much work to do. I should go.” 

“Your, um,” Broun muttered. 

“It’s nothing. It really isn’t. I could do the rest myself,” Gur stammered. Broun could see the outlines of their arms under the cloths, and saw them folding them against their chest. Gur took their better arm and pulled one smaller cloth out from under the larger covering, pulled it close to their face, as if to cover some part of their expression.

Broun tried to speak, for a moment, before the cloth caught their eye.

The cloth Gur was pulling close was Valence’s. It was cut small, to tie close around his neck, hidden under layers against him. 

“I think,” Broun said, “I really need to fix that. Your arm. It’ll...be better. And no one will notice at the sermon tomorrow.”

The image of strength left Gur’s body so thoroughly they may as well have collapsed.

Broun got them to sit down, then, to let them finish. It was far from difficult, with the metal as thin as it was. For something so essential it worked like clay with the right tools, in the right hands.

And at that point Gur was a quiet patient. It did not fit him at all. Broun did what they always did, something they always hated in retrospect: talked to fill the space.

“Valence will be happy,” they said. 

Gur’s head jerked up. They blinked, complete surprise on their face.

“They told me about it? The fabric. _And_ they probably didn’t want me to tell you that,” Broun took a breath, talking like it would cover up their mistake. “But they said you weren’t feeling great. So.” 

A shitty explanation for why they were inexplicably doing this for Gur, despite his insistence to leave, they thought. They didn’t understand that themself. 

“...They’re fussing over me,” Gur said, looking away, arm at Valence’s fabric again. “They shouldn’t. They feel guilty for nothing.” 

“Yeah, that’s Valence,” Broun muttered, and immediately felt bad. 

But Gur responded with a little _brr-ep_ noise, a sort of sigh. “Valence- they know they cannot mold everything to perfection. Certainly the results of their _tenure_ taught them that. But it appears they would like to continue to take on burdens as if they could try _._ Even if those burdens are acting like another’s problems are their own.”

Broun could hear Valence in their mind, then, standing in front of their spaceship: _this makes us even._

“Yeah,” Broun said, forcing their tone steady. “They, uh, tend to do that, too.” 

Gur looked back up at them, eyes oval in an expression of concern. Of all the ways this could get more awkward, Broun thought, and now they had to pretend that didn’t hurt something deep in them. 

Broun shook their head, vowing to change the topic as they made a few last tweaks to the end of Gur’s arm, leaning close to make sure their work was accurate. “At least they’re learning to shoot now. I don’t want to have to make another body _every_ time they fight someone outside a mech, you know.” 

Gur cocked their head. “What do you mean?” 

“Milli’s teaching them how.” 

“No, I- that’s kind of Milli, but- you mean they weren’t confident in their skills.” 

Broun, done with Gur’s arm, stood up straight again. “No, they didn’t know how to before.” 

“Broun. You were _mercenaries.”_

Broun sighed. “Yeah. Uh-huh.” 

Gur looked down at his now-fixed arm. Broun assumed, for a moment, they were looking at the repairs, judging them. 

But no- Gur was looking at the point at the tip of their limb. “Valence’s reluctance toward violence is...admirable. But frustrating. I am never sure what to do with it. I suppose we _should_ be happy they are starting to be willing to do what they must, and yet...” 

He paused, for a moment, and then tucked Valence’s cloth back under his robes before standing up. 

“I suppose it does not make me feel good to know they felt a need to harden their heart, either,” they said. 

It wasn’t, when Gur put it that way, Broun thought. There was a melancholy coming to rest on their shoulders that they needed to drive away, though, so they had to find a way to respond that was a little less depressing. 

“It’s Valence,” they said. “I don’t think they _can_ do that.” 

“I’d hope not,” Gur mumbled. Then they sighed, shifted a bit in place, as if trying to return some presence to their body. “Broun. Thank you, truly, I- I shouldn’t have imposed.” 

“You didn’t. I kind of...barged in.” 

“It’s _your room._ Technically I was the one to do that.” 

“Um. Right. Still.” Broun thought that interacting with people they knew well could be uncomfortable enough, at times- the constant exposure of how they tripped over their words, how they studied basic interactions like business dealings. This felt even more fraught. “I, like...kept you here. Whatever. You know what I mean.” 

Gur’s eyes crinkled appreciatively, for just a moment, before they focused their gaze behind Broun. 

“If it does talk to you. Asepsis. Come and find me,” Gur said, voice dropping in seriousness. “It is not an easy thing.” 

Would it really do that? _,_ Broun wondered, but brushed it off. It was a serious offer, from someone whose words carried weight. “Yeah. Okay. You’re sure you don’t have enough to do?” 

Gur paused, moving toward the door. Broun could not see their expression but their tone, when they spoke, sounded soft. “It would be more than important enough.” 

Broun let out a little _huh,_ trying to pretend people saying things like that wasn’t the sort of shit that made their cheeks flush. 

“And,” Gur said, turning back to them in the doorway, “if you could...keep an eye on Valence, I would be grateful. It would be wrong of me to assume what is going on does not worry them just as much, when we aren’t together.” 

Broun nodded. “Yeah, of course. And- I won’t tell anybody about your arm.” 

Gur smiled. Yes, Broun thought it was a smile- a kind of wide grin, parsable even if unfamiliar. 

“That would be preferable, I think. Well, then- good night, Broun.” 

Broun got nothing done, that night. They slept in, through the early morning, and when they woke up there was thunder and the sound of sirens.

-

Six days after the storm, Broun returned to their workroom late at night, half-awake, to find Valence waiting. Standing outside the door, leaning against the wall, they were mimicking relaxation and clearly not actually feeling it. 

_Hey,_ Broun said in their head, it coming out loose and easy in their exhaustion.

_Hey._ Valence responded. _Can I talk to you? Or do you need to sleep?_

Broun waved a hand, gesturing them inside with a little “c’mon.” Valence nodded, walking in after them, and closed the door gently as they came in. Not a lot of people came down this hallway, and that was something Broun knew Valence was aware of. 

_Is something serious-,_ Broun’s mind started, before they thought of how ridiculous a question it would be. The religious center of Millenium Break and the captive princess of Kesh were missing; of course things were serious enough to close the door. _What’s going on?_

Valence sighed. In the dull overhead light Broun could see droplets of liquid reflecting off their nose, water stains on the shoulders of their tunic. _We didn’t find anything today,_ they said, just as Broun processed they must have been out with the search parties. _And I’m starting to think we’re never going to find anything at all._

That thought had grown in Broun’s mind, too, over the previous few days, but it felt different hearing it come from Valence. They’d seemed optimistic before, the first to tell people ‘maybe Clementine just left’and ‘Gur can take care of themself’ _,_ and this felt like an admission that was enough to keep the door shut all on its own. 

_I mean, it could still be anything,_ Broun told them, hoping they couldn’t pick up the insecurity in the idea. _All people saw was them talking, I mean- Gur does_ miracles, _right?_

_But why would he leave?,_ Valence asked, and there was a wavering in the question that pulsed in Broun’s mind. 

Broun had worried they’d be the one hurting Valence, bringing up old wounds, but it wasn’t relief that filled them then, knowing it was something else that made Valence upset in this way. Instead it made them want to reach out, stabilize the wound like patching up an opening in their frame. It felt wrong to think of Valence as a pessimist. 

But Valence felt it was necessary to learn to shoot now, didn’t they. Broun considered that thought, bitterly, as they hesitantly patted Valence’s shoulder. 

_Look, we don’t know anything until we...actually know something, right?,_ they told them, hating the trip over their words even in their mind. _Don’t freak out._

_I’m not, I can’t,_ Valence began, and then made a short noise before they began to speak aloud. “Sorry, that’s...not even what I came to talk to you about. I came to ask you if you knew anyone that could help me. The project Gur and I were working on- I have to keep it going. Even with them gone.” 

Broun ignored how they felt about Valence cutting the connection, the way it made them waver. “Okay. You didn’t tell me what it is.” 

“It’s about my God. I know you might think it’s ridiculous again-” 

“I _won’t,”_ Broun responded. It came out defensive when they meant it to be reassuring. 

“Okay, then,” Valence said, and it was too quick to sound comforted. “When God spoke to me, they spoke to Gur too. Gur was supposed to...put together a body for them. Find the parts of it all over Partizan. But then we had to set up Millenium Break, and...he lost track of time.” 

Broun stopped themself from commenting, from letting themself judge. But it was easy to remember Gur, less than a week ago, anxious enough to think anything and everything was a distraction. “You mean it’s too late?” 

“I- I don’t know. We can’t let it be,” Valence said, shaking their head. “But part of it was in Vigil City, and we let that go to Columnar when we rescued the people there. And Gur thought the only thing that could create that new jungle was another part of it. Which means someone else has _that_ , too.” 

Broun pursed their lips, thinking. “So,” they responded, “we have to steal them back?” 

Valence gained the start of a smile, making a little _heh_ noise, before seeming to brush the feeling away. “I don’t know how we’d do that, but we do need to get as much of it as we can. And...I’m not sure what putting The Exemplar together will be like. I don’t even know if we _want_ to put it together _._ I don’t think _I_ do. But if we need to do _anything_ with it- do you know anyone who could help? People you work with?” 

Broun wanted to ask why they wouldn’t _;_ they themself could care less, but they’d think Valence, a loyal acolyte, would want their God’s will fulfilled. Wouldn’t Gur have wanted it? 

“I mean,” Broun said, “you’re looking at someone who’s put together bodies right now.” 

The hope was that that’d make Valence smile again. Instead their eyes looked away, jaw stiffening for a moment. “And you’re very good at it,” they said, “but this is...a long mission, Broun.” 

“And?” 

“You need to leave.” 

What was jarring about how Valence said it was not them saying it at all; of course Valence thought they still planned to leave. A part of _Broun_ still thought they were going to leave, as if the project “Millennium Break” would someday be wrapped up in a tidy bow, as if they could pretend nothing tied them down there.

But Valence spoke with a gentle sort of _force._ Not just with security, but as if this was something they were mandating, creating by saying it aloud.

“I’m not going to leave for a while, I mean-” Broun responded, “You know I have to get things in order and everything-” 

“So I’m not asking you to be a part of it,” Valence continued, folding their hands behind their back. “I just want a little advice.” 

It took Broun a moment to realize this was meant to be a kind gesture. Because in the moment it _hurt_ , the kind of hurt that made their stomach churn, their throat bristle with something unsaid. They couldn’t tell Valence they didn’t want to leave, no. God, maybe some of their old anger was justified- anger at Valence brushing off the position Broun had worked for them to get, Valence always asking for more and not making it clear their promise remained- but Valence had kept that promise, given Broun what they’d always wanted, and ungrateful had become the last thing Broun wanted to be seen as. 

“Well, I, yeah,” Broun said, catching themself. If Valence didn’t want them to help, fine. Fine. “There’s some...there’s a lot of people who’re good at it, of course.” 

“Thank you,” Valence responded, voice level. 

Broun grabbed a pad of paper and scrawled down names, not looking up. When they were done they tore the sheet off haphazardly and dropped it into Valence’s hands. “They’d all be good choices,” Broun mumbled, shrugging. “Was that it?” 

“Yeah,” Valence said, putting the paper into a pocket of their tunic. “It’ll be a big help.” 

Broun took a deep breath and looked away. It felt ridiculous of them to get hung up on this; vulnerability was the sort of shit that they always tended to regret. They couldn’t stop themself from speaking anyway. “I’ll still be able to work on it, before I leave. If you need m-”

“ _Broun._ ” 

Broun felt Valence’s hand on their arm, briefly, before they even looked back up at them. It was a short, careful touch, the kind that seemed like it was meant to steady them, before Valence decided to reel back. 

“I _can’t_ let you lose your chance to get out of here,” Valence said, tone careful. 

“You wouldn’t be,” Broun stammered. “The ship’s going to get used. It’s not like I wouldn’t, it’s what I wanted.” 

“It’s not _about_ the ship,” Valence said, strain in their voice. “I always would have gotten one for you. But someone told me where it was, I didn’t buy it or anything like that. I got lucky.” 

“Then what,” Broun said, struggling not to give anything away in their voice. “What is this about.” 

_I can’t take this again, not twice,_ Valence thought, a fragment of an idea so quick it could not have been entirely intentional for Broun to hear it, and Broun for a moment swore they could feel a hand on the side of their face.

“I’m- I’m not letting anyone else I care about get hurt here,” Valence sputtered. “I can’t let that happen if I can _do something_ about it.”

Something was wrong with their form, Broun realized- the gas visible through their neck and wrists looked as if it was fizzing, thinner than usual. Broun wanted to touch it, to fix it like they could fix Valence’s body, put it all back in place. 

“Hey,” they said, quietly. “Valence, I’m...I’m not going to _die_ here.” 

“Broun, people just _died_ when-” Valence paused, posture stiffening. “Disappeared. People disappeared in an instant when we weren’t even _fighting_. And people who don’t deserve it die on this moon all the time.” They shook their head, fists balled up. “I want to believe we can stop this, that Millennium Break can change things before it’s too late. But now...sometimes I don’t know if we can.” 

“You sound like I used to,” Broun blurted out.

“Well, maybe you were right,” Valence said, their speakers crackling.

Once, Broun thought, something about Valence admitting that would have made them a vile kind of satisfied.

And now, more likely than not, a friend’s corpse sat at the bottom of the ocean. 

“We...both need to sleep,” Valence muttered, putting their face in their hands. 

They’d spoken before Broun could process a response. Their brain was searching for ways to comfort someone, ways that’d work on someone as sensitive and sentimental as Valence, but, hell, Broun had never been capable of such a thing. 

“You- you don’t _have_ to leave,” they said, reaching for anything, wondering if they’d have a real response if Valence stayed for just a few minutes more. 

“No, I do. You were already sleepy when I got here,” Valence said. They sounded like someone who’d been yelling, a hoarseness to their words. “Promise me you’ll get some rest?” 

Broun took a shaky breath. “Only if you promise youwill too.” 

“Done,” Valence said. 

Then they paused, staring at Broun for a moment, as if studying them over. Broun shifted in place, trying to find words on their tongue. All these ideas about maybe, just maybe, being closer to Valence and they found nothing satisfying to say. 

“Okay. I’ll see you,” they muttered, a little ashamed.

Valence reached out, touched Broun’s shoulder first, then came a little closer. It was not quite a hug; Valence simply moved in, placing their forehead against Broun’s temple, cool, wet metal against their skin. 

You still don’t have to leave, Broun nearly told them. We both could stay here tonight, and we both could stay on Partizan, and I could help you fix all of this so I never have to hear you talk like that ever again. 

Valence left. In the morning, outside, A.O. waved Broun over, and pointed to a scrap of metal floating just off the lowest deck. 

-

Valence is in the firing range that night, alone, when Broun finds them. Broun is more than familiar with the sound of bullets, even bullets shot close by, but something reverberates up their body at every shot, even with noise mufflers over their ears. I’m getting soft, they think, hate themself for it, bite the inside of their lower lip to steel themself.

They’d meant to confirm Valence had heard the news, but everyone has. There’s no point in asking. That news is why Valence is here. 

They are watching Valence, studying their grip on the revolver and the way their fingers move, when the pulse comes back up their arm. The reverberation from the metal is not quite gone.

It travels up and grips their throat, for a second, and in that second Broun sees where this could lead: Valence using that gun again and again, and Valance prophesying, preaching to Millennium Break, never gently enough, always with a sense of dread that turns people away. And Broun themself, fingers and arms burnt numb where Asepsis fights against their work, every one of their projects still undone, trapped in Partizan’s orbit. Lightning over Cruciat, perhaps forever. 

“Broun?” Valence calls out, breaking the vision. “I’ll be done in a minute. Okay?” 

Broun nods. They close their eyes, and imagine those shots are being fired somewhere far from here. If they think of it that way, the noise feels fake, impossible. _Pop, pop, pop._


End file.
